


Princess

by Newsetofproblems



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gay Panic, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Internalized Homophobia, John is understanding, Light Angst, M/M, My First AO3 Post, Period-Typical Homophobia, but mad at first, paul freaks out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:21:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22681642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Newsetofproblems/pseuds/Newsetofproblems
Summary: Sometimes people liked to make their assumptions known. Faggot, poofter, queer, Paul had gotten used to it, and to be honest, it never bothered him really. He couldn’t control the way he looked and if other people were bothered by it, then that was their problem, not his.And then John happened.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 10
Kudos: 132





	Princess

**Author's Note:**

> Hhhhhhhg, so after having this account and doing nothing with it for like 2 years now I've finally decided to post something...! Yay me.
> 
> Honestly back when I made this account, I would've never thought my first post would be Beatles fanfic, but here we are, I guess. I hope you enjoy whatever this is.

Paul always assumed it was his looks. His soft, plump lips, big doe eyes and accompanying long eyelashes, the features that had proved to be both a blessing and a curse throughout his life. A blessing because people seemed to act more charitable to a pretty face. Mix that in with a polite demeanour and well, it was rather easy to charm people. A curse because boys- _men_ , for that matter weren’t supposed to be pretty. They were supposed to be tough, strong, assertive. And while Paul knew he could be, that he was these things, his appearance led others to presume otherwise. And sometimes these people liked to make their assumptions known. _Faggot, poofter, queer_ , Paul had gotten used to it, and to be honest, it never bothered him really. He couldn’t control the way he looked and if other people were bothered by it, then that was their problem, not his.

And then John happened.

Paul had never considered his relationship with John anything other than platonic. John was his mate. His best friend. His creative partner and in some respects, his rival. It was complicated to some, perhaps, however to them it wasn’t complicated at all. Though relationships can change. And it did change, one night after what felt like a particularly long show, and they both had a bit too much to drink. They stumbled and giggled their way up to their hotel room. Paul had closed the door behind him and cracked a daft joke, he didn’t even remember what it was. And then John kissed him. Paul felt like something fragile, something that had been so close to breaking for years, had finally shattered. They couldn’t stop after that. Paul remembers that tour as a haze of quick kisses, stolen looks, uncoordinated shagging and late night cuddles when they were positive they weren’t going to get caught. It had felt like a dream.

But the thing about dreams is that sooner or later, you have to wake up. And Paul’s awakening felt as if a bucket of ice-cold water had been poured down his back.

As soon as the bubble of touring life had burst, Paul’s mind had began racing. This whole thing with John had been an incredibly stupid idea, it could put their entire careers, their whole _lives_ at risk. What if someone found out? What if someone already _knew?_ They were fucked. Paul found his brain began to get stuck on those words that never bothered him before. Faggot. Poofter. Queer. Paul knew, he _knew_ he wasn’t those things. But he was, wasn’t he? Words that once seemed merely like an uninspired attack on his physical appearance suddenly rang true. There was now a small nasty voice at the back of Paul’s head that was repeating them back to him. He was so screwed.

Since John and Paul and written quite a bit of new material on tour, amongst… _other activities,_ the band was back in the studio in seemingly no time. It was a productive session. They’d managed to get through a good chunk of materiel, record takes they were all happy with. Though, once they got to a song that Paul was rather determined to get ‘right’ the pace slowed slightly.

“Christ, it’s like yer a bloody film director,” George quipped. Paul chuckled.

“Oh? You’ve got a problem with that, have ye George?” Paul replied with mock offense. George shrugged.

“No, not at all, sire.” Everyone chuckled.

Regardless, they’d decided to take a break. Paul had gone to the hallway to get himself a glass of water.

“What’s taken ‘em so long with that one anyway,” Paul overheard a voice say. He turned to see two interns walking down the hallway.

“Who knows? Whenever John’s princess gets going they seem to take a while.”

They both laughed, meanwhile Paul felt a sharp pang in his chest. He turned away. Fucking hell, that nickname was still going around? Paul, frankly didn’t see what was so fucking funny about it, nor why people thought it was okay to call him demeaning names behind his back. Especially when it caused those _other names_ to flash through his head as well. Paul shook his head. He turned to back to the interns. They were gone.

He then suddenly felt arms slip around his waist and a head rest on his shoulder. Paul couldn’t help the warmth that flooded his chest and the grin that spread wide across his face.

“Comfortable then, aren’t we, Lennon?” he joked.

“Mph,” John replied, nuzzling further into Paul’s shoulder. “Fuck off, Macca.” Paul giggled at that.

“Aww Johnny, I’m hurt.”

“Good.” John began to trail kisses up Paul’s neck. And as nice as it felt, Paul couldn’t help but notice the knot of panic quickly forming in his stomach. _Faggotpoofterqueerfaggotpooferqueer_ , the voice began to chant. He once again glanced up and down the hallway.

“John… John, baby, I don’t think we should do this here,” he murmured. John chuckled.

“Why not? Scared we’ll get caught?”

“Yes, that’s actually exactly what I’m afraid of,” Paul replied. He felt the soft presses on his neck turn into nibbles. “Joooohn.”

“Yer no fun, y’know that, Paulie?” John whined. “C’mon, no one will see us.” Paul started to wriggle in John’s arms.

“We’re in public, anyone could walk by. We need to be careful,” he breathed. He could practically feel John roll his eyes.

“You’re paranoid,” he shot back. “Look, there’s no one around, see? Quit acting like such a bloody _bird_.” A wash of rage suddenly coursed through Paul. He pushed John off him.

“Paul, I didn’t mean-“

“Shut up! Just fuck off, John,” Paul snapped. He looked away. “Come on, the others are waiting for us.” Paul walked back towards the control room and didn’t wait for John to catch up.

Neither of them talked about it. Paul avoided John for the rest of the day and didn’t speak to him unless it was about the music. This repeated the next day. And the next. Until days turned into a week.

Paul was an idiot. He’d fucked everything up. John wasn’t speaking to him. He wasn’t speaking to John. He had no clue where they stood with each other anymore. Or what their relationship was. Were they still together? Had they even _been_ together in the first place? Paul knew they were going to have to start speaking to each other again at some point. But what would happen when they did? Would things go back to the way they were before that night? Perhaps, that would be a good thing, Paul thought. After all, it would save him all the confusion and turmoil he had been in these past few weeks. And things had been fine before all of… _this._ But no, that’s not what Paul wanted. He didn’t want things to go back to the way they had been. He still wanted John. He still wanted to kiss John. To touch John, to hold John. To fuck John. To tell John he l-

“Paul…” Paul turned to see John in front of him, eyes averting his own. They were back in the studio once more and the session had been incredibly dry.

“Y-yeah?”

“Cyn’s out a friend’s, she’s got Jules with her too,” he muttered. “She said they wouldn’t be back for a while, may even stay the night… so I thought ye could come over to… to go over some songs.” Paul stared at him for second. John still wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“…Yeah,” he said eventually. “Yeah, that sounds good… Johnny.” John’s eyes flicked up to him. Paul forced a small smile. John mirrored his expression.

The car ride was painfully silent. Paul kept trying to think of things to say to his partner but his mind came up blank.

More silence.

Eventually, the car pulled up to John’s house and he and Paul shuffled inside.

“So, what songs did you want to work on?” Paul blurted suddenly. John huffed out a humourless laugh.

“You must be fucking joking, Paul,” he snarled.

“Well you said-“

“I know what I fucking said! It was an excuse alright?! And you bloody well know that too, McCartney!” Somewhere in the back of his mind, Paul knew he was right, however the part of him that didn’t want to concede to a hot-headed John Lennon was stronger.

“Frankly John, I wasn’t sure. You’ve barely spoken a word to me this past week!” John snorted at that.

“Oh yeah, I forgot! It was _me_ that pushed _you_ away, and _I_ completely ignored _you_ afterward! _Poor Paulie_ , I’m so sorry, how could you ever forgive me?!”

“Don’t act like bloody a git, John!”

“You fucking wanker! You really think you’re the victim here!” Paul glared at him.

“I never said that,” he stated flatly. “But don’t act like you weren’t ignoring me too.” John rolled his eyes and turned away.

“Whatever. This was a mistake. Get out.” Paul’s mind blanked. His heart felt as if it had shattered into a million pieces. No. nononono, it couldn’t end like this.

“John…” And once again John refused to look at him.

“I said get out-“

“John, please…” Paul took a chance and took a small step closer to him.

“You just… you completely shut me out,” John said, voice suddenly sounding incredibly small. “You shut me out and I didn’t… I didn’t know what to do.” Paul felt himself give in entirely. The urge to comfort John overriding any sort of pride he’d wanted to protect.

“I know, I’m sorry,” Paul said softly, pulling his friend (boyfriend?) into a hug. “I’m sorry, John, I was just… I was scared.” They stayed like that for a couple of minutes. Paul hugging John, running his hands through his hair and John burying his head into the crook of Paul’s neck. Until John eventually asked, 

“Scared of what?” Paul tensed.

“Nothing… it doesn’t matter.”

“No, it does,” John insisted. He looked up searched Paul’s face. “What’s wrong, Macca?” he asked softly. And suddenly, John’s voice was too soft, too patient, too understanding. Too much. John would never act like this to George, or Richie or Mal or hell, even Brian. He couldn’t take it. Christ, why couldn’t he just be angry and pig headed again? Why couldn’t he treat Paul like everyone else?! Paul wasn’t fucking delicate. He wasn’t… he wasn’t-

“I’m not… I’m not a bloody bird,” he croaked. John giggled-fucking _giggled._

“Why thank you, Detective Holmes, I would’ve never realised-“

“I’m serious, John!” Paul snapped. “I’m not a bird, I’m not a princess! I’m not _queer_ -“

“woah, woah, slow down, son,” John interrupted. “Look, let’s… let’s sit down, yeah?” He guided Paul to the nearby couch and arranged them comfortably. It was a few minutes until John spoke again. “Listen Macca, I know you’re not a bird-“

“Then why does everyone treat me like one?!” Paul yelled. “Everyone calls _humiliating_ names. Say ‘m a princess, a diva, call me a poof or whatever, and it didn’t matter, cause I wasn’t those things. But… but now…” he trailed off.

“Now ye shagging a lad?” John supplied. Paul huffed.

“To put it simply,” he agreed. “it means all those things said about me are true-“

“No it doesn’t.” John caught Paul’s eye. “It doesn’t, they don’t know shit.” He continued, “I don’t like thinking ‘bout it either, alright? Thinkin’ about what this means about what we are, but… ye have to remember bein’ queer isn’t a bad thing. I mean, Eppy’s queer and do we think he isn’t a lad?”

“No.”

“Exactly. Anyway, you can’t think about it too much otherwise you’ll end up doing something daft, like… like beating up a DJ at yer best mate’s 21st.” There was silence. Paul burst out laughing.

“Oh Johnny, only _you_ would stoop that low.” John elbowed him in the ribs. “Ow!”

“Bloody right, ye git,” John tried to sound angry, but he couldn’t contain the laughter that was bubbling through him. His smile grew soft, and he stared at Paul, eyes shimmering. “Trust me Paul, yer just as much as a bloke as everyone else. Pretty eyelashes and all.” Paul rolled his eyes in mock annoyance.

“Sod off, Lennon.”

“No, I mean it!” John insisted. “The only difference is you’re a bloke I can do this to.” He closed the gap between them and in and instant, his lips were on Paul’s. And just like the first time John had kissed him, Paul’s stomach flipped, startled for a second. It didn’t take much time for him to relax however and soon enough, he was kissing back. _God he’d missed this_. Paul didn’t realise how truly deprived he’d felt of John after a week of not kissing him. And Paul was more than happy to make up for lost time. John’s mouth felt like coming home, and Paul had been away for too bloody long. Eventually, John pulled away, a mischievous smirk appearing on his reddened lips.

“Eh, Macca. I think I have an idea how to make ye feel like a bloke,” he giggled. Paul grinned, feeling heat building below his stomach at what John was insinuating.

“Oh? Tell me more, Johnny.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments/Kudos are are very much appreciated! Again, this is the first fic I've posted so I'd really appreciate the feedback!!


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